The counting of minutes until he came home
by The Bromance Kills
Summary: John's day was becoming increasingly dangerous. What started off as a mugging had turned much worse, and with a foggy head, how will John survive? Sherlock, worried,goes out looking for his friend, becoming increasingly agitated along the way. Strong Friendship, and a relatively happy ending. Probably not very good, but I'd still like a review.
1. Chapter 1

He started mentally counting the minutes, as soon as the hour mark was passed. Then 2 hours, Two and a half... It was worrying really, especially since John had only gone out to get some tea bags.

Sherlock finally lost his calm after a dozen texts were sent and ignored. Pulling on the black trench of his, he tucked and pulled his scarf around his neck, the unfamiliar feel of something hard in his stomach. His ribs felt like they were contracting with nervousness, a feeling both unfamiliar and distracting for him. He jumped down the steps 2 at a time, arousing Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock dear, don't storm about like that, the floor won't hold it! "She fussed, emerging from her flat with flour on her arms and apron, a typically sweet old grandma look. "Where's John? I need some advice from him on my hip, it's aching something horrid..."

"Sorry Mrs Hudson, haven't got time, very important case you know!" Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, hurrying out the front door to avoid a lengthy conversation with Mrs Hudson. _She did like_ _to natter on a bit after all_, he thought, slipping his Blackberry out of his pocket. He paused reluctantly before tapping out a dreaded number. Everyone had to make sacrifices sometimes, and apparently something was happening to John. It was worth it, just this once, and Sherlock might never see a man like him again.

With his coat swirling behind him, Sherlock leapt about London looking for his missing flatmate, and Mrs Hudson went back to her kitchen and back to her Victoria sponge.

Peeking through the oven to check the cake, she muttered to herself quietly:

"I wonder where on earth Doctor Watson is?"

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John in fact was cold, uncomfortable and bored. It started off as being mugged by a poor beggar but had spiralled out of control, and ended up by him being knocked out with a crowbar, but not before breaking a man's nose and cracking another's knee cap. The apparent mugging soon turned into something deadlier, and John found himself fighting ten men at once. Now John was stuck in a cold room on an abandoned estate, with a large cut across the back off his head, a splitting headache, and one of his eyes foggy and blurred.

_Probably due to the Visual Cortex at the back of my head_ John thought faintly, wincing at the bruise that twinged whenever he moved his head. It wasn't an ideal situation but there was no point panicking, as John had been in slightly worse situations thanks to Sherlock. But this was dangerous, and John had no intention of being killed in this murky room. He was going to escape somehow; he would certainly not be a damsel in distress this time.

**I will continue this, but if anybody is looking for romance or fluff, you're not going to find it here. I would like some reviews, and if you're so kind to give me one, I shall love you forever, I promise.**


	2. Chapter 2

Meanwhile, on the other side of London, Sherlock was had just finished tapping out Mycroft's number. He hadn't called that number in years, ever since the violent fight over Sherlock's use of drugs. It hurt his pride dreadfully to call Mycroft for help, but he needed evidence to start the investigation with, rather than jumping head first into it.

The dialling tone suddenly stopped, and after a lengthy pause a voice finally spoke.

"_Fancy you calling me once more, little brother_," Mycroft said mildly, irritating Sherlock with the coolness of his voice. _"Do you want help from me, or money?"_

"I have no need of your money Mycroft, I wish to view a CCTV clip" Sherlock replied emotionlessly, refusing to allow Mycroft to vex him at this crucial moment. "I need any footage of John between 1 pm and 3 pm, between Baker Street and the nearest two Tesco's. He seems to be missing."

Mycroft didn't reply straight away, and when he did, he sounded nothing more than slightly interested.

"_What a shame," _he said light-heartedly, "_I'll get my men to look for signs of him, and I'll contact you_ _if we find anything unusual_"

"That's not good enough; Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped, tugging his curls with annoyance. "I need to see the footage myself; your apes are bound to miss something important!"

"_I will look at the footage myself if you're so concerned" _Mycroft reassured him. He only succeeded at pissing Sherlock off even more.

"That does not make anythingbetter in the slightest." Sherlock replied, tapping his foot in impatience. He was a wasting time, thanks to the infuriating antics of his brother. Mycroft never knew when to shut up and do what was asked of him, and it seemed he never would.

"Mycroft, I really need to see that footage," He added, trying to rectify the mistake of offending Mycroft's intellect. A tense silence took place before the reply came.

"_I'll send you the clips, but you owe me". _And the line disconnected.

**************/***********************/********/*/ */*/*/*

John's headache was starting to subside, but the frustration of being trapped was only getting worse. His stomach was growling like a rabid dog, and he found himself thinking wistfully of the box of tea he had originally gone out to get. The muggers/kidnapers seemed to have abandoned him here, as he hadn't heard a sound since he had woken up, even when he had pressed his head right up against the door.

By now he had realised that this was not an average mugging, but something much worse. No mugger would go through the bother of moving their victim after nicking something from them. There was definitely something fishy going on; something John was afraid to contemplate.

The room he was stuck in was murky, damp and sour smelling with heavily boarded windows, letting only the smallest amount of light in through cracks around the boards. The walls where stripped of everything, plaster and flaking paint littering the stained and rotting wooden floor. Half the door seemed to have black mould and something else growing around the door frame, adding to the already dank atmosphere. Gathering his strength, John lashed out at the door again and again, bruising the side of his arms and the soles of his feet. It simply wouldn't shift, no matter how long or how hard he pounded it.

Panting heavily, and glaring at the door in frustration, John realised that brute force alone wasn't going to break down the door. He was going to have to use a certain amount of brainpower. Until now, he had been aiming at the hinges, which had a promising cover of mould over them. But that hadn't made the hinges any weaker, so maybe he should be aiming near the actual lock instead.

Back in Afghanistan, John had seen countless men breaking down doors and even broke down a couple himself. But the vital rule was _never kick near the hinges. _You'd only succeed in bruising your foot, and nine times out of ten, the door stayed where it was. Cursing himself for forgetting a part of his training, John placed himself parallel to the door and in a swift movement; placed one foot hard into the ground, and drove the heel of the other foot beside the lock. He was rewarded with a splintering of wood, and with another three powerful kicks the door finally swung open.

As he had guessed, the block was abandoned and was even more disgraceful than the room John had just deserted. The floor was piled ankle high with rubble, and out of a nearby glassless window, John saw he was about nine floors high, and the surrounding area was flat and featureless. About two roads away, the city carried on as normal, with buses, cabs and people going on about their business. This was either a building site, which was unlikely judging by the poor quality, a demolition site, or an abandoned estate tower block.

Climbing his way through the mess, John wondered why on earth the kidnappers had bought him here, out of all places. They could have just left him in the alleyway, instead of transporting him to an unknown part of the city. But _**why bring him here**_?

John managed to get down the stairs and out of building without any trouble, but the lack of noise was eerie and set his nerves on the edge. The ground was muddy and covered in brick and cement dust, forming small hills which John struggled to trudge through. The whole site was closed off by a blue three metre high plastic wall, which was bound to have some anti climb paint or wire of some sort.

_This is just ridiculous _John thought bitterly as he walked beside the wall, looking for a way out. _I should be at Baker Street completing my blog post, or reading the paper, or watching a bit of the news, not walking around in the middle of nowhere..._

He eventually found his way out, through a builder's door that was plastered with health and safety signs. KEEP OUT and NO ENTRY and NO ACCESS FOR UNAUTHORISED PERSONS. A bit too late for John really.

Little did he know that as he struggled through the maze of terraced houses that a dark shape was following, and whispering news down the mobile phone clutched in his hand.

**I've got an idea of where this story is headed now, so please give me a review of what you thought. Yellowrose437, if you can spare a moment I would really like a review from you please. Thank you to anyone who reads this!**


	3. Chapter 3

Back at 221B, Sherlock had re-entered the flat and sat cross legged on the sofa, his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop. The clips Mycroft had sent where informative, to say the least. There was an annoying blurriness to the footage, but Sherlock could still deduce what was going and it made no sense whatsoever. From what he could make out, John had been ambushed in an alleyway near to Baker Street, lashed out at two of the men attacking him, got knocked out with what looked like a metal pipe and was shoved into the back of a rusty old Ford van.

_These men are certainly professionals_, Sherlock analyzed, looking over the careful teamwork and utmost precision they carried out the kidnapping. This was not an unplanned thing, but what was the point in kidnapping John? Did they want Sherlock to pay them for his release, or was this another twisted game of Moriarty?

The men that sorted out CCTV sent him more clips every two minutes, showing the van making its way out of Westminster, out of Hammersmith, out of Chiswick and into Brentford. But instead of going into the HI-Tech, bustling part with big companies such as Glaxo Smith Cline, the van turned into a rundown estate. Frowning, Sherlock paused and rewound the clip and saw that the van was stopping next to a ten floor high building, enclosed by blue walls and surrounded with muddy ground.

The clips stopped arriving but Sherlock was fine with that, as he had all the information he needed. John was in Brentford, unconscious and abandoned in an unsafe building. But the clips still hadn't shown the motive of the kidnappers, unless they planned on destroying the building with John inside.

"Criminal's turn more erratic and random every day, "Sherlock muttered to himself, before hailing a cab outside the building and making his way to Brentford.

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A cold wind was blowing as John struggled to make his way towards the main road. The people around him kept their distance, giving him disgusted looks as if it was somehow _his_ fault he looked a mess. The back of his head was numb, and he could feel the blood drying but knew better than to poke his fingers about in his injury.

Walking didn't seem to be getting him anywhere, apart from further into the land of blocks and badly kept houses. No-one seemed to be about in this part of London, with everyone either barricaded indoors or elsewhere. Stumbling, John limped past a very loud dwelling, with the blaring of TV and the smell of burnt onions wafting from it. A very loud conversation was taking place, between two chavvy men who spoke incomprehensibly in slang and swear words. John couldn't understand most of what they were saying, so avoiding knocking on their door. _Not a place I can stop and ask for help anyway _he thought sourly, forcing himself to press on until he came out into somewhere more respectable.

Preoccupied with the thought of getting back to 221B, John still hadn't noticed his silent stalker, who was noiselessly slipping past bins and lampposts, and the occasional overflowing black bag leaning against garden gates. His phone was still clutched close to his hand, and underneath his hooded jacket a bulky object was hidden, in the familiar shape of a gun. However, he had been briefed and informed again and again not to use it until absolutely necessary. The mysterious boss that gave him this confusing task warned him that if he dared disobey, he would be killed, and killed in a horrible way.

The man shuddered as he remembered the unpredictable psychopath. However, he had also been told that the short man he was trailing _**must not**_step a foot out of Brentford. And John was rapidly approaching the end of Brentford so the stalker was facing a bit of a dilemma. Should he shoot; and directly disobey the boss's orders, knock Shorty out, or let him go and hope for the best? The hit man was not a clever person at all, and only knew violence as the solution for difficult situation, so did what was natural for him. As John approached closer to the edge of the estate and nearer to the next borough; the man bought out his gun and took aim at John's leg. Without a moment's hesitation he pulled the trigger and fired.

The blast of the gun was unnaturally loud and echoed off the ugly faces of the blocks, the noise being repeated again and again. Muffled screams, (mostly female), and around four wailing car alarms could be heard. John stumbled forwards, shocked and dazed, with pieces of pavement flying up and hitting the back of his legs. But amazingly, the bullet had not found its target, despite the stalkers years' worth of experience with shooting. The man was really not at all smart, and hadn't taken into account John's awkward gait. John was a tired man, and wasn't walking the way he usually did, in a repetitive, sensible manner. With the odds of about a hundred to one, John had limped a little to the left just as the bullet was fired, missing the bullet by about three centimetres.

Aware that he was being shot at, John rolled effortlessly behind a low garden wall, and set off immediately down another road, his back bent low to become less of a target. The shooter realised the enormity of his mistake, and began to shoot determinedly at the wall John was crouched behind, hoping desperately that he would stop. Fragments of clay and bricks flew everywhere, and the cracking of bullets made a racket across the estate. People were screaming, petrified, and a few of them where gazing out of the windows unwisely.

"Everybody get down, and get away from the windows!" John shouted, aware of the dangers of flying glass "Get down and stay down, unless you want to be killed!"

Luckily the residents obeyed, cowering behind sofas and retreating from windows. Another bullet came whizzing towards John, barely missing him by an inch. Adrenaline pumping, and with his cold, hunger and pain forgotten, John darted down the length of the wall, and took cover behind a parked car. The Hit man watched him despairingly, conscious of the fact that he had made a mess of his mission and that the boss would surely murder him for this.

Teary eyed for the first time in years, the man looked at his gun and his shaking hand, and with a shuddering breath bought it up and fired. And so was the end of the notorious Russian murderer Anatoly Vadis, feared and wanted by many. John bolted out of the estate, and onto the main road, unaware that the danger had past, and the shooter was dead.

*******/***************/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

It was not going to be the end of a hassle for him though, as some miles away; a very angry man was breaking a table and sending another man after John. Moriarty did not like to have his games ruined, especially by men supposedly on his side. And now poor John was going to taste the full blast of his wrath.

"Fail me, and I will take your skin off, and roll you in salt!" Moriarty snarled at the dark shape behind him. "And if you do fail, I _**will**_ find you and you'll be sorry you ever ran!"

**/*/*/*/***************/*/*/*/***********/*/*/*/* /*/*/*/**/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Sherlock heard the shots as he drew closer to the estate via the main road. Hurrying out of the Taxi and staring at the mess of blocks before him, he couldn't help but feel as though the case had taken a very nasty turn indeed. This wasn't just a little kidnapping anymore; it was a full out, chaotic war.

**I don't know which way I'm going with this story anymore, but thank you so much to the people who have reviewed! John is now heading towards Hammersmith and yes there is going to be more hardship for him. All the places in the story are real, but Brentford isn't as crap as I have described it, I just wanted to set this part of the story in a really chavvy place.**

**Yellowrose437, I think I made quite a lot of mistakes here. If you could read over and correct, I'd be really grateful. Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade was somewhat surprised when he realised he was being called by Sherlock. He stared at the vibrating blackberry in his hand gormlessly for a few seconds, before his wits caught up with him and he pressed the green button.

"_Sherlock?" _ He asked quizzically "_What have you done?"_

There was a pause, and the sardonic voice of Sherlock answered, but Lestrade could have sworn there was something not quite right about him.

"_Haven't you heard what's happened in Brentford?" _Sherlock asked "_The shooting in the tower block estate? Yes, well, John's been kidnapped for some mysterious reason and is in one of the blocks."_

Lestrade opened his mouth a couple of times, genuinely shocked. John Watson, kidnapped?! The idea of such a thing made his head whirl.

"_Wait a minute Sherlock, kidnapped? Are you sure about that?!" _Lestrade questioned, trying to push his own personal feelings aside. _ "How on Earth would you know that, I mean John is perfectly capable of-"_

"_Shut up and listen to me" _Sherlock interrupted irritably "_The kidnap was a professional job, obviously organized and I have come to the conclusion that this is the work of Moriarty,"_

"_Hold on, hold on Sherlock!" _ Lestrade said loudly, gripping his desk in frustration _ "Isn't Moriarty that nut job from the leisure centre? What has he got to do with anything? Maybe you're just jumping to conclusions, you never know..."_

Sherlock ground his teeth in displeasure, ducking behind a lamppost as two police officers hurried towards the crime scene. He was trying to make his way to the block John had been put in, but that was an incredibly hard task with police and nervous residents everywhere. Soon, the media would invade too, so Sherlock had no time to be slowed down by the bumbling Scotland Yard detective.

"_If you're not going to help me Lestrade, then I will go after John myself" _ Sherlock snapped sharply, making a run for it while some police men where focused on something else. _"I don't have time for this Lestrade, so are you going to help me or not?!"_

"_Now wait a minute Sherlock," _Lestrade warned, knowing that Sherlock really would recklessly go after a criminal mastermind, _"Can you just stop and wait for a bit, while I try and get in contact with Brentford? A few minutes, just wait a few minutes, and don't you try and do anything rash!"_

Sherlock snorted with disbelief. When Lestrade talked about a few minutes, he knew it would take more than an hour, an hour he couldn't spare. It seemed the Detective Inspector would be no help, as usual.

"_I'm not waiting Lestrade," _He said calmly _"I don't have the time. Goodbye" _And just like that, Sherlock hung up.

Back at the police station, Lestrade swore as he realised the line had been disconnected. He tried recalling but the sly detective had turned his phone off.

"You idiot, you idiot, you complete_!" Lestrade shouted in indignation, staring at the mobile in annoyance. Someone rapped at his office door and Donovan's face poked in, her face curious.

"Sorry to bother you sir, but we were, um, wondering why you were swearing?" She asked, staring brazenly at Lestrade's openly troubled face, "Everything all right sir? You can end your shift now you know if it's getting a bit too much..."

Lestrade let out an exhale of hair, rubbing the nape of his neck.

"Since when is anything all right with Sherlock Holmes?" He muttered, more to himself than to Donovan. "Oh the stupid idiot is going to cause uproar tonight,"

Donovan's face darkened at the mention of Sherlock's name, and she stood angrily, her arms folded.

"We're not cleaning up after him sir" She said sourly, crease lines in her brow, "We're a laughing stock amongst the Met sir, and we can't just run about after him all the time..."

Lestrade ignored her, sweeping the endless stacks of paperwork on his desk aside. He knew he had the number stored somewhere in his files, the question was where?

"What are you doing sir?"Donovan asked, annoyed at being ignored, "Sir, why you throwing papers about?! SIR!"

"Oh get out Donovan; I need to find the number!" Lestrade snapped, shuffling through one of his files, "Back to work, NOW!"

Donovan swept out of the office haughtily, leaving Lestrade to wreck havoc in his office alone. He found what he was looking for eventually, and held it triumphantly before frantically typing something out on his phone and holding it to his ear.

"Hello?" He asked nervously, bending low over his desk, "This is Lestrade, and I'm afraid he's doing something stupid again-"

************************************************** *******/*********************/*******************

This time, John managed to detect he was being followed. He began to notice while trudging down Chiswick high road that a menacing, tall man with what looked like a mess of ginger hair over his head had been behind him since Brentford. John didn't dare take a good look at him, but from what he could see at the corner of his eye, he held a bag and a guitar case over his back and a pair of white iPod earphones were trailing down his jumper. He was obviously trying to fit in with the crowd, but he still seemed to have a dangerous look to him, and pedestrians walked unusually far from him.

Breathing heavily through his nose to keep calm, John tried to think rationally about his situation but he couldn't concentrate with the imminent threat of another gunman looming over him. It was too early to run, and anyway, there was always the chance the redhead would open fire on the people around him, and that was a chance John couldn't take. So far, there didn't seem to be any way out of the gingers viewpoint so he would just have to keep walking until he found a decent place to duck into.

_It's just like being in a movie _ John thought wearily, trying to remain unsuspicious _And now my cut is probably infected, considering how much I've been poking it.._

John touched the back of his head gingerly and found that the blood flow had slowed considerably, but the wound was still weeping. If he had the chance, he would have washed and bandaged the cut but that was out of the question at the moment.

Without warning, John's chance suddenly showed itself in the form of a side road. He smoothly ducked into a street full of townhouses and turned again into an alleyway, wishfully hoping that the ginger gunman would perhaps loose him. He turned again, onto another house full of streets and exited onto a busy road full of cars. The noise was comforting, dimming the noise of John's own heart to his ears. However John still felt uncomfortable, as if the gunman was only a few paces behind and was simply toying with him; making him feel as though he had got away.

_He's playing with me_ He found himself thinking, gritting his teeth as he turned in a full circle, his eyes sweeping the area for a glimpse of luminous red hair. It was disconcerting being hunted by the ginger man; like being studied on a microscope, or being placed underneath a huge magnifying glass.

It was gut instinct that got John to twist around in time to see the man barely centimetres away from him, looking down with an unreadable expression on his face. John stood tall and stared just as stonily back, assessing the man's height and strength with a sweeping look.

The gunman cocked his head curiously, puzzled at why the strange little man didn't seem to be running or even making any effort to protect himself. He quietly pulled the earphones out of his ears, still glaring at the short doctor who refused to be scared.

"You're going to come with me," He ordered, flexing his fists in preparation in case John tried to run last minute "No problems, no fuss, just walk with me all right?"

"Or?" John challenged, secretly preparing himself for a standoff if one presented itself "No offence whoever you are, but I have no idea what your people want with me. I just want to go back home to be honest."

"You shall come with me, John Watson," The gunman said threateningly, "Or else I shall gun down everyone here and then kill you too. We don't want to resort to that now, do we?"

John hesitated, weighing his chances against each other. He didn't want the innocent pedestrians to die because of him, but neither did he want to go along with this lunatic's plan. Besides, he could always try and overpower him, but that would probably end badly.

"OK, OK," John said dejectedly, after a brief hesitation "I'll come, but I want a full explanation of what's going on and why you're all so intent on killing me. I haven't done anything after all."

Sebastian Moran grinned crookedly, pushing John out in front of him, and aiming his handgun at the small of his back. At least this one knew when to cooperate and when to fight.

"Oh, don't worry about that," He said calmly, slipping his earphones back in, "I'm sure you'll get a clear idea of what's happening soon enough."


	5. Chapter 5

**I know this chapter is long overdue, and I have no excuse for abandoning it. Sorry.**

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* * *

Despite being somewhat civilised for a kidnapper, Sebastian still insisted on half choking John with a black cloth bag that was deposited over his head. His hands were twisted and secured behind his back with some wire that cut deep into his tired flesh. To avoid any unwanted attention, he was pushed into the back seat of a tinted van, windows dark enough to obscure John from the outside world. Even without his sight, John knew Sebastian was keeping a close eye on him, whilst driving madly down the main road.

The bag smelt revolting, a strange mix between sweat, the metallic scent of blood and something bitter. It made John's nose prickle with irritation, as if something physical was invading his nose. He was desperate to get out, testing the door handle to see if he had a chance of wrenching it open and jumping out when the van slowed down. He'd probably be run over by a lorry or something, but it still seemed less volatile than sitting behind a maniac with a bag over his head.

"If you think it's a good idea, then go" Sebastian drawled, sounding as calm and as dangerous as a coiled viper, "Jump out Doctor"

John hesitated, uncomfortable with the fact that Sebastian seemed to know he was a Doctor. He must have been briefed before kidnapping him.

"You'd shoot me anyway" He muttered, slumping back in defeat, "Where am I going?"

"Classified" Sebastian barked, sounding amused. Even his good humour sounded dangerous.

"Who sent you?" John asked, gritting his teeth at his unhelpful answer, but of course Sebastian couldn't see. "Or did anyone even send you? Are you working alone?"

"Sorry Doctor" Sebastian smirked "I'm going to tell you anything, so you might as well be quiet "

"What do you hope to gain from this?!" John cried angrily; temper flaring at long last "I have no information, no secrets, nothing!"

"I will put another bullet through you shoulder if you don't shut your mouth" Sebastian warned, all previous light heartedness gone from his voice. "Shut up!"

John decided to follow his instructions despite the irritation flooding through his veins. Sebastian swung the van around erratically, and judging by the beeping horns surrounding them, it had been a close miss from a crash. His madness showed no sign of abating as his speed picked up, the engine growling from beneath John's feet. An hour or so passed in this manner until the van finally slowed down and Sebastian stepped out, yanking John outside after him.

"Can you take this bag off me now?" John questioned angrily as he was dragged after the brisk walking Sebastian, "Stop pulling me, you're cutting my wrists!"

John's wrists were indeed bleeding; he could feel blood running down his little finger. Surprisingly, Sebastian let go of him immediately. John opened his mouth to thank him for the small show of empathy, but the words jammed in his throat as he heard a dreaded sound barely centimetres away from him.

The metallic clunking noise of gun being loaded.

It sounded as if it was coming from John's left, but he didn't bother running as he knew he was at too close a range. Instead, he decided to recklessly defend himself in the only option available to him: **attack the gunman himself**. It was awkward to hit out at him, what with both his arms secured and a bag over his head but somehow John managed it, crashing bodily into Sebastian and sending them both sprawling to the ground.

"OW, YOU SON OF A_!" Sebastian swore, punching John in the side as he tried to struggle to his feet. Aware that Sebastian could easily shoot him while he lay vulnerably on the ground, John kicked out towards the direction of Sebastian's furious cursing. He was satisfied to hear the crunch of a broken nose and the jarring that ran down his leg upon impact.

Sebastian cursed again, more in anger than in pain, and hit John around the face with the back of his hand. He snatched up his gun, reloading it again before carefully aiming it at his victim's head, ignoring the waterfall of blood that dripped down his chin.

"You're an idiot" He said scornfully, his voice muffled with pain and blood, "Now you're just going to get shot-"

John struggled upwards into a sitting position, cheek still smarting from the bitter slap. Beneath his suffocating mask he clenched his eyes, preparing for the bullet that was going to come his way. He never thought his life would end this way, but it seemed too late to change anything. Perhaps he should have written a will...

John's final thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sing-song voice that seemed to materialise out of nowhere. It was awfully familiar, and as soon as John heard it he wished the bullet had taken him earlier.

"Now, now Sebastian, "The voice chuckled, the Irish accent still detectable amongst his words, "That's not the way to treat guests! And it's definitely not what I ordered you to do..."

Recoiling with both horror and disgust, John tried to edge away from the voice of Moriarty, which was coming from somewhere above him. Sebastian lowered his gun, gaping uselessly at his boss as he trying to come up with a plausible explanation.

"He attacked me!" Sebastian blustered, gingerly touching his nose "I wasn't going to kill him sir, just teach him a lesson..."

Moriarty took a step forward, somehow managing to look both relaxed but deadly at the same time.

"But I didn't tell you to, did I Sebastian" He stated calmly, "I don't like disobedience now, do I Sebastian? I don't like people who ruin the game either"

Sebastian mumbled fearfully in return, and John felt a surge of pleasure at his discomfort. However Moriarty seemed to bore of him, turning his attention to John. He nudged his leg with his foot, ignoring John's muffled sounds of protest.

"I'll speak with you later Seb" He called over his shoulder, slipping his hands into his suit pockets as he did so, "Bring him with you"

So John was hauled unmercifully from the ground and frogmarched after the Criminal Mastermind.

*/*/**/*/

The mask was eventually taken off John, and the sudden light that hit his eyes was unexpectedly bright. Sebastian made sure to cause him as much pain as possible, pulling the wires that bound his wrists as hard as he could, making the John's wrists bleed harder than ever. Moriarty was brushing a few specks of dust off his sleeve, looking as relaxed as someone about to go for a nice walk.

The room John had found himself in was plain, whitewashed walls, no windows, threadbare carpets and strips of fluorescent light lighting the room. No one else seemed to be inside with them, and Sebastian stood by the only door, looking vengeful as his nose still leaked blood. Moriarty didn't seem to have the intention of speaking and after waiting a few seconds, John lost his patience.

"Are you going to tell me what you want?" He asked hotly, glaring at him "I don't have anything to do with you lot, so are you going to speak or just stand there!"

"Oh I'll tell you what we want" Moriarty replied casually, ignoring John's disrespectful tone, "It's such a shame we had to go through such nastiness to get you here, and I'm sure Sebastian would agree... "

Sebastian made a small noise at the back of his throat, but if Moriarty heard him, he certainly didn't show it.

"Honestly, I just wanted to have a quick word" Moriarty continued eyes boring into John's "I have a... Ah...small preposition to make. And I had to get you, Johnny boy, away from a certain flatmate to present it to you, do you see my point? So we've ended up here..."

"What do you take me for?!" John snapped, blood boiling at Moriarty's words. How dare he ask him for anything, especially after the dreaded event at the swimming pool? "I'm not doing anything for you! Never!"

Moriarty sighed, sounding irked.

"You really should think before you think Johnny boy" He muttered, gazing unblinkingly at him "I don't want you to work for me, it would never work. I just want you to _take my advice _and disappear for a while. Maybe Somalia, or even North Korea if you prefer. You can even stay in Iceland, and I'll even get you free passage"

"And why on Earth would you do that?" John asked, surprisingly calm "Why on earth would you want me out of the way like that? I'm no threat to you"

"You're less threatening than dust to me" Moriarty agreed, "But You need to go John. How's Sherly by the way, is he pining for me yet?""

John had a mini staring test with him, trying to read his intention on his blank, emotionless face. None of it made sense; why John out of all people? The only solution John could possibly come up with was Sherlock. Moriarty and Sherlock were arch-enemies after all, so John must have got in the way somehow.

"Why do you care? "John muttered defiantly, after a full minute of silence. "Sherlock doesn't _pine _for men like you, and I have no plans of leaving. Not ever."

Moriarty smiled, as if it was the answer he had been expecting all along. He pushed himself off the wall, all the while still grinning freakishly at John. He was so at ease it made John immediately wary.

"Off you pop then!" Moriarty exclaimed brightly, "Go call your detective, I have no business with you anymore!"

John stood slowly, eyeing him and Sebastian cautiously for any malicious movements. He knew better than to believe all Moriarty wanted was a small chat.

"I'm not going to do anything you know" Moriarty remarked, cocking his head as if in thought, "No; you're no use to me..."

"I never wanted to be" John retorted, edging out of the room as fast as he could. Sebastian gave him a dangerous look which looked almost like fire dancing in his irises.

John held Sebastian's gaze for a second, looked him down head to toe in a demeaning way before rushing out of the room as fast as he could.

/*/**/*/*/

Moriarty chose his location well, because John didn't have the foggiest idea where he was. It was a drab landscape, with nothing but a dual carriage way and scattered patches of grass in view. The sky was a wall of grey as if it was about to rain and planes constantly streaked across, their engines disrupting John's mangled thoughts.

The only thing on John's mind at that moment was getting as far from Moriarty and his henchmen as possible. He decided to head westwards down the side of the carriageway, mulling over the conversation he had just left. None of it made sense; why would Moriarty go through so much trouble just to tell him he was no use to him? And why had he accepted John's answer as gospel before he had even tried to persuade him? John considered himself reasonably strong-minded person but even he had to admit Moriarty could have broken him easily if he had chosen to.

**So what did Moriarty secretly want?**

John tried to search his memory for any information he might have involuntarily given, but there was nothing. Sighing in annoyance, John decided to give up on trying to deduce anything and instead concentrate on getting home safely. Upon inspecting his wrists he saw that they were worse than he had first thought, and he didn't even want to think about the back of his head. At least he'd have some interesting scars.

Fortunately, John saw the first good thing he had seen all day; a lorry trundling towards him. He placed himself in reasonable view before sticking out his thumb in the universal signal of hitchhiking.

_Please spot me, Please spot me, Please stop _John thought desperately, waving his arm up and down in the hope of getting more attention. The Lorry did indeed stop, and a surprisingly skinny man stepped out, looking shocked at John's unexplained appearance and his generally worn state.

"Um, hello, can I use your phone please?" John asked sheepishly, wiping a drop of blood off his thumb. "I've lost my way"

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

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**Sebastian's going to return, and I've decided on a definite ending for this story, thanks to Yellowrose437. Please review and tell me what you thought.**

**Thanks to all those lovely people who reviewed previous chapters!**


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft was annoying.

Of course, he had always been far too controlling for his own good, but sending one of his spies after Sherlock did seem a tad over protective. Sherlock had just finished inspecting the abandoned tower block, and was annoyed to find it empty. Instead of finding John, the most informative thing he found was a trail of footprints leading out of the demolition site.

Just as Sherlock had clambered up the blue site wall and jumped down the other side, he saw the black Mercedes pulling up the road. Snarling, he turned away from the car, scanning the footprints. They looked as if they were leading into the site of the shooting, confirming his suspicion that John had something to do with it. Now the only problem was to find out more about John's faded trail, without having to ask Mycroft for help again.

He turned to face the car, which stopped right beside him. A man with the snooty face of a government official stepped out, glancing over Sherlock suspiciously.

"Tell Mycroft to stay out of my business! "Sherlock hissed before the official had time to speak "I don't need a trail of spies to follow me-"

"Mr Holmes has no wish of spying on you," the official interrupted tightly, looking as though he would rather be anywhere than speaking to Sherlock "He merely wants me to make sure you don't...become too inflamed for your own good. Unpredictable, erratic, if you know what I mean sir, since you are very thoughtless at times-"

Sherlock would have loved to show the official exactly what he was capable of, spouting off his life story by simply looking at him, but right now was not the time. He instead glared darkly at him, and he stared just as defiantly back.

"I don't have the time for his meddling!" He agonized, dark thoughts playing in his head, "This isn't just a marauding-around-London case, but something that actually matters!"

"And Mr Mycroft understands the importance of it, and so wants me to warn you to _not do anything rash." _The official explained coolly "Mr Holmes told me of your stubbornness sir"

"Then leave me alone" Sherlock spat, turning with a flourish, and pulling his phone out of his pocket as he did so. "It was Lestrade who told him of what I was doing wasn't it? I'll be having words with him..."

"Moriarty is an extremely wanted criminal for the Government!" The official called after him, as he began to walk away, " Mr Mycroft wants the situation as controlled as possible , and if you do anything to jeopardise this goal, then-"

Sherlock stopped listening, as he had become too interested on something on his phone. A missed call from a number the phone didn't recognize and the display said it was about ten minutes ago.

"Hmm" Sherlock murmured, walking as briskly as he could away from the official. His finger hovered above the redial button, before he decided to press it. He couldn't guess who the caller was just by looking at the number, and anyway, it might be something connected to the kidnapping. The phone rang once, twice,three times before the receiver finally answered.

"_Hello?" _An unfamiliar male voice questioned. The distinct noises of an engine could be heard in the background, so the man must be driving and talking on the phone at the same time.

"You rang me earlier" Sherlock stated, mind whirring as he tried to think who on earth the caller was. "Around ten minutes ago. Who are you and why did you call?"

"_What?! Look mate I didn't call anyone since yesterday and-"_The voice suddenly stopped, and an audible sound of understanding could be heard. "_Ohhh, you mean the short bloke! Hang on; I'll pass the phone..."_

Sherlock clutched the blackberry slightly harder than was necessary, hoping the 'short bloke' was John. It would save a lot of effort and might even stop the whole mess from getting any further.

"_Sherlock?" _A tired sounding voice asked. It was John for sure, even though he sounded wearier than Sherlock had ever heard him. "_Is_ _that_ _you_?"

"Yes John, it's me" Sherlock answered, a small smile on his face "Where are you? I traced you to a tower block in Brentford, but then Mycroft decided to send one of his idiots to apprehend me. Are you OK?"

"_Never_ _better_" John replied amusedly, _"Have you done anything to annoy Moriarty Sherlock? Because he was acting really strange..."_

John tried to explain his misfortune as briefly as he could, Sherlock listening attentively, not once interrupting. John was right, it really _was_ strange.

"So he went through all that trouble only to ask you some silly questions" Sherlock mused, "But why does he want you to 'get out of the way'...are you sure he didn't say anything else?"

"_That was all he asked" _John said firmly "_Then he let me go without even batting an eyelid! There was no point to any of it, none of it at all!"_

"All right," Sherlock announced after a full minute of thinking, "Ask the lorry driver to drop you off somewhere recognizable. He must be uncomfortable with what he's hearing anyway, he'll be glad to get rid of you."

Back in the lorry, John looked sideways at the driver who did seem to be more distressed then he was before. He clutched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, and he was sitting on the edge of his seat. It looked as though he was trying to get as far as possible from John.

John lowered the phone from his ear, looking sympathetically at him.

"Can you drop me off somewhere noticeable please?" He asked politely, trying to make himself seem less odd to the driver "Where my friend can find me, if you don't mind"

The diver nodded stiffly, barely glancing at him. John sighed and gave up on trying to seem normal, instead laying back in his seat and praying to be home soon.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Barely an hour later, was John sitting outside Osterley Station, colder than ever in the chilly evening air. He couldn't stop bitterly thinking about the quiet night he was supposed to be having; a small meal, maybe even watching a nice bit of Saturday night TV. Danger was something John tolerated, something he loved, but being dragged about London was something he did _not _appreciate. It was around 9:50PM according to the station clock; too late to go out for ordinary people and too early for party goers. A few people still milled about, but the station was relatively calm.

_Perfect conditions for a shooting _John thought, smiling at his own paranoia.

/*/

Little did John know that his thoughts were actually remarkably accurate. A few metres away, crouched behind a newspaper stand, Sebastian watched him with hate-filled eyes.

Sebastian knew what he was doing would be severely punished but was fairly confident that Moriarty wouldn't care, and even if he did, he wouldn't kill him for it. Besides, Doctor Watson had dented his pride by breaking his nose, and that was something Sebastian would never be able to forgive. A crooked nose, in his opinion, was enough to shoot somebody for.

But before anything could happen, a tall, dark haired man made his way towards John, patting his shoulder in a show of muted relief. Sebastian cursed, watching the pair readily as he waited for his chance.

/*/*/

John was immensely glad Sherlock had at last showed up, because it meant he could relax for the first time all day. Sherlock looked pleased with himself at not having to go through much fuss to find John, but frowned when he saw his bloody cuffs.

"Did they bind it with wire?" He asked, peering intently at the cuts as he inspected them, "It was unnecessary to use wire. You might need stitches, they look nasty."

"Not really" John muttered, pulling his hand out of Sherlock's vice-like grasp. "They should close up on their own if I'm lucky. Can we go back home now? I'm sick to death of the outdoors."

Sherlock smiled lightly, overall pleased with John's condition. He had been expecting bruises as big as the moon littering his face, but a few cuts and the wound from the crowbar didn't seem too bad. Everything was turning out better than he had expected and he hadn't even confronted anyone yet.

Sherlock's surprisingly optimistic thoughts came too soon, as that was the moment Sebastian decided to act.

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**Reviews please, and any relevant thoughts. I'm almost done with this story now, which is going to end soon. This story will have links with Reichenbach, so please keep reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

"Stop!" Sebastian snapped, sliding smoothly some distance in front of them, his gun steady and aiming straight at John. He narrowed his eyes meanly at him, as if to say: _You started it; you bought it upon yourself... _The dark haired male suddenly made a slight movement, but Sebastian caught it impossibly fast in the corner of his eye. He reloaded the gun, emphasizing the movement and placing his finger firmly on the trigger. Sherlock froze immediately.

"You try anything funny, either of you, and I'll shoot you both so fast you won't feel it" Sebastian warned, but then his face suddenly turned into a foul leer, "Well, I'll make you suffer a bit longer, _Doctor."_

John stared darkly at him, ignoring the mocking hatred blooming on his still bloodied face. Sebastian aimed the gun towards the space in between John's eyes,enjoying watching intimidatingly over him and grinning savagely as he lowered the gun to the spot just above his heart. John clenched his fists, ready to do whatever it took to be rid of Sebastian once and for all.

"You!" Sebastian barked unexpectedly, glaring at Sherlock who was looking cool and unconcerned, although John knew his brain was whirring for a plan and his eyes searching for a moment to attack. "Back off, now! I know you remember, so don't you even dare try to outsmart me!"

"Well, it wouldn't be very hard" Sherlock replied mockingly, sounding easy and in control. Sebastian's face twisted, and John knew that the man did not need another excuse to lose his temper completely.

"Sherlock" He said monosyllabically, a warning undertone in his voice. They shared a glance; John's sending a stern message through his eyes. Sherlock hesitated and the muscles around his eyes clenched slightly before he silently stepped away from his side, but still in the vengeful gunman's view. Sebastian looked delighted at his unprotesting obedience. Inevitably it didn't last very long as Sherlock began to talk, mocking Sebastian in his clever little way.

"No amount of surgery going to ever fix that." He commented, grinning slyly as Sebastian raised a self-conscious hand to rub his bruised nose but lowered it again. "It must hurt a lot, and what will people say when they see it broken? Moriarty's right hand man, got his nose broken by a _doctor_…"

'_What the hell is he playing at?!' _John thought despairingly to himself, glancing down the barrel of the gun, _'What can he gain from deliberately baiting him…'_

"Don't think that I won't shoot you too" Sebastian warned, watching them both for sudden movements, "You may think you're ever so clever, but brains won't stop a bullet smashing through your skull-"

"I'm sure Moriarty wouldn't be pleased at that" Sherlock interrupted, shrugging carelessly, "He seems very intent on burning me and all that, so I don't think shooting me would personally help you at all"

Sebastian moistened his lips, knowing that Moriarty would indeed rip him apart if he killed his nemesis before he did. His face immediately became hard again as his eyes came to rest on the doctor, his trump card. The poor old vulnerable doctor was his bargaining chip at the moment, and Sebastian would not hesitate to shoot him into a bloody pulp.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Sebastian grinned, watching John the way a wolf would watch his prey. "This is nothing to do with you, clever boy, this is between me and _**him**_ only, and Moriarty doesn't give a damn what happens to him anyway."

Sherlock's relaxed appearance disappeared straight away and was replaced with a steely, almost scary one.

" I have no fight with you at the moment, nor you with me, " He began, a fiery undertone to his words, "But if you kill him, then your mine and I'll personally rub you down into nothing before placing you into hell itself. Don't think I'm not serious, Sebastian, you have no idea what I could do to you!"

Sebastian's cocky expression faltered for a moment as he studied the demon-like man before him. For a while, the detective had reminded him of Moriarty, exactly like Moriarty and he had no doubt that Sherlock was more than capable of destroying him.

But none of that mattered when he looked over at Watson, who looked back at him with nothing but wary disgust in his eyes. He wasn't even scared; the man who had broken his nose wasn't even scared of him. Sebastian had killed more than a hundred people in his lifetime yet John Watson didn't look bothered in the slightest. Sebastian felt rage and pride build up in his throat like it had done so many times before and, unfortunately, it blinded his common sense.

"I have no fight with you." He hissed through gritted teeth, his vision slowly turning red, "But I'm killing him, and I don't care what you say!"

John's eyes widened slightly as he realised what was coming his way but he didn't even get time to duck.

**BANG!**

The gun went off with an ear-splitting crack and he felt a burning pain in his left side. The world started twisting to the right and he didn't even realise he was falling until he was on the ground, gasping for air as he stared up at the murky sky. Dazedly, he fumbled at his side, barely registering the blood in the way. But something was wrong, his Doctor self knew it before his brain did. There would have been far more blood if the bullet had hit an artery and he could feel something hard between his eighth and ninth rib. Instinct told him it was the bullet. His lung was probably punctured; he could feel blood welling in his lung and his throat but it was fine, all fine. He might just even live.

Something dark loomed above his face and it took him a while to recognize Sherlock's face. It swam in and out of focus as John struggled to comprehend his muffled words.

"Can you play dead?" Sherlock asked softly, and John was perplexed at the strange request. "I'm sorry John, but you have to trust me now. Can you play dead?"

John couldn't ask why, and even if he could, he didn't even care any more. He gave a tiny, minuscule movement of the head, not bothering to tire his brain trying to work out what Sherlock was planning.

"We could get out of this, if this goes to plan" Sherlock continued, eyes boring into John's. "Don't make any obvious movements and keep your breathing to a minimal!"

John blinked slowly and Sherlock sensed the fact that time was running out.

"It's been a pleasure and an honour knowing you, John Watson." Sherlock finished, his voice sincere. "I'll try to get us out, but if we don't, then, well…"

John got the message, he nodded slightly again and closed his eyes. He tried to shuffle into a comfortable position but it was impossible on the concrete pavements so he went limp where he was lying. Dead.

Sherlock regarded him hesitantly for a while, wanting to say more, but he shrugged his thoughts off and turned to face Sebastian. His face was dangerously calm, and even from seven metres away Sebastian could see the barely concealed fire in his eyes.

"He's dead." Sherlock said flatly, his voice dead. "You killed Doctor Watson."

Sebastian began to smile delightedly, ignoring Sherlock's snarl.

"I told I would, didn't I?" He said gleefully. "That's what he gets for breaking my nose, and there's nothing you can do to bring him back -"

"There's no need to look so happy, since you're going to join him." Sherlock informed him icily, and Sebastian narrowed his eyes at him, looking for any signs of guns or other weapons.

"I don't have any problem with you Holmes, and I don't want one either." Sebastian reasoned, not wanting to anger the detective unnecessarily. "What's done is done, and- **OI, WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT!**"

Sherlock ran and grabbed at him before he could dart out of the way, grabbing his jacket and slamming him onto one of the stations graphitized walls. He put his face close to Sebastian's, and the assassin almost flinched as he felt his icy breath and saw the fury in his eyes.

"I won't kill you now, Sebastian, but don't think I'll forget." Sherlock hissed, slamming him onto the wall again. Sebastian fumbled for his gun and Sherlock laughed humourlessly in his face.

"Go ahead and shoot me" He spat, throwing him away from himself, dusting his hands mockingly. "I hope Moriarty splatters your brain all over London!"

Sebastian picked himself off the floor, humiliated but determined not to let the detective see it. He didn't need to shoot Sherlock anyway; he already had what he wanted.

"I've done what I need to do" He called over his shoulder as he began to walk away into the night. "You've lost Mr Holmes"

There was no reply and Sebastian felt a surge of triumph as he sensed he had scored a verbal win. He laughed out loud to himself, jubilant at his victory.

And back at the station, Sherlock was grinning to himself as well, resisting the urge to jump for joy.

"It worked John!" He murmured delightedly. "It worked, idiot didn't suspect a thing! The plan has worked, I've won!"

John squirmed on the floor, barely clinging to consciousness and frowning at Sherlock's word. In his opinion, Sebastian had won, he's the one who got what he wanted after all. Or so he had thought.

Sherlock wiped the smirk off his face as best as he could, but he still looked annoyingly pleased with himself, astounded at his own genius. He knelt beside his fallen comrade, sensing that perhaps John was not in the mood for his explanations at the moment.

"Y..you're an annoying..g... git" John struggled to say, grimacing at the taste of metallic blood in his throat. Sherlock frowned, misunderstanding the expression on his face.

"I apologize" Sherlock replied formally, looking around his surroundings for a bystander. "We should really call you an ambulance, that's quite a lot of blood."

"Then call one" John interrupted abruptly, wincing as the pain seemed to get worse instead of go down. His vision was far too blurry now for him to even recognize Sherlock's face.

"Well _I _can't" Sherlock said regretfully, narrowing his eyes at what looked like a drunk shuffling past some distance away. It was unlikely he'd let them use his phone but he'd have to do "I planted mine on Sebastian, obviously"

John felt a vague sense of confusion but he dismissed it at his wound began to feel very hot indeed, as if a red hot poker was being poked through. He grunted in muted agony, pressing a shaking fist against his ribcage to help dim the pain a little. Sherlock needed no more persuading and he pounced up, jogging over to the drunk who watched him bemusedly.

He came back only seconds later, his prize clasped in his hand as the drunk began to exit the scene as swiftly as he could. He kept glancing back at Sherlock fearfully, as if he was afraid of getting shot.

" It's not even his phone, he swiped it off a clubber somewhere" Sherlock muttered, tapping out the number and holding the very expensive phone to his ear. "Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance please. My friend has been shot in his left ribcage... We at the entrance of Osterley Underground station, right beside the news stand...No, no we don't need police assistance thank you very much, but if you insist then please contact DI Lestrade of the Westminster borough. We're both known to him..."

John was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open, let alone concentrate on Sherlock's exchange with a 999 operative. He blinked sluggishly up at the dark shape of Sherlock above him, focusing in and out of shape with the light from the phone illuminating his face. There was no need to fight to stay awake now,since an ambulance was on its way and no doubt Sherlock would be the one to sort out the mess with Lestrade. With an exhale of air, John's eyes slid shut and he entered the blissful void of unconsciousness.

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It's always weird coming out of a mindless, soundless, _thoughtless_ void but that experience was made all the stranger when John woke up in hospital. The hospital bed threw him off balance whilst various sounds and the blinding white of the light also helped to confuse him. Somehow, he felt even worse now than when he had been shot. There was no more burning sensation but his left lung felt peculiarly...flat, and breathing was like trying to breathe through a straw. He blinked again and suddenly realised something was on his face. Crossing his eyes, he saw it was an oxygen mask.

'_Perfect'_ John thought sardonically '_My lung must have collapsed'_

A collapsed lung would mean hours of breathing exercises and he would spend at least a week feeling like an asthmatic or a very heavy smoker. But at least the bullet had been extracted and fingering the wound under his hospital gown, John was satisfied with the stitches. Most NHS nurses either made stitches too jagged and big, but John's stitches seemed fine, and if he was lucky, the wound might even fade away to barely noticeable levels.

Sitting up bought black spots to John's vision and removing the mask was worse. Even though one of his lungs was functioning normally, breathing became near impossible and it was after a full minute practising his deep breathing, John was able to stand up. He hated the feeling of uncertainty as he lurched one way to another, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. He managed it somehow and grabbed his freshly washed clothes from a neat pile on an armchair. Someone had even gone through the trouble of ironing them, although his shirt still had a faint bloodstain on it. He pulled it on anyway, feeling much better after discarding the hated hospital gown.

He lowered himself heavily to the bed, looking about his cordoned off section uncertainly. But before he could ponder about what on earth he was supposed to do next, someone suddenly burst in through the blue curtains.

John stared at Sherlock and Sherlock stared back at him.

"Ah good" Sherlock commented, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Are you feeling back to your old self?"

John folded his arms and glared sternly at him.

"You" He began icily, his voice still out of practise. "Have a lot of explaining to do"

"Yes, well" Sherlock began uncertainly, making himself comfortable on the armchair "Good news first, Sebastian and Moriarty have both been caught by Moriarty's men on a raid in one of their hideouts. Sebastian's in the secure unit of Pentonville and Moriarty's with MI5, no doubt getting tortured."

"Moriarty?!" John explained, unable to get his head around the criminal mastermind actually getting _caught. _"How on earth did Mycroft manage that?!"

"With the help of his brilliant younger brother" Sherlock answered his lip curling into a tiny smile. "I explained at the crime scene remember, that I had planted my phone on Sebastian?"

John stared at him uncomprehendingly. He did indeed remember Sherlock telling him that but at the time he hadn't seen the significance of it. He still didn't.

"The phone John, the phone that has a tracker from Mycroft embedded on it!" Sherlock explained excitedly, looking like a hyped puppy as he continued. "Due to Mycroft almost always knowing where I am, even in places with no cameras, I realised that I probably had a tracker on me. And the only item I _always_ have with me is my phone; I've never leave it at home on any case."

Sherlock bought the BlackBerry from his coat pocket and John knew what he said was true. The phone sometimes felt like an extension of Sherlock's body but the idea still seemed too far-fetched. And most importantly of all, there could have been every chance that the phone wouldn't have had a tracker on it. That would have meant Sebastian's freedom.

"You were guessing!" He accused disapprovingly but Sherlock waved off his claim nonchalantly.

"It's not a guess if all the factors point to it" Sherlock corrected. "And this is Mycroft we're talking about. You know how much of a mother hen he is, and there's nothing that's too unrealistic for him"

John couldn't disagree with that. On the rare occasions he met with Mycroft, he was often overwhelmed by his stalker like personality.

"So then Sebastian headed back to Moriarty" Sherlock advanced, his eyes shining with victory. "Mycroft tracked them both down, and there we have it. Both of them caught with nearly no problems at all!"

"Except for me ending up here" John finished, frowning as a sudden thought came to his head. "But it still seems a bit too smooth for my liking. I mean...it's Moriarty for God's sake-"

"Well he'll obviously break free soon" Sherlock agreed "And the criminal classes will be a pain to deal with now that they have no leader. But oh well, that's our job, isn't it? To help the bumbling Scotland Yard catch at least one criminal once in a while."

"What's Lestrade got to say to all this?" John asked, suddenly remembering the ever suffering DI. "He won't be pleased that you've created more work for him..."

"Lestrade's been _unbearable" _Sherlock scowled, frowning distastefully at the mention of inspector "All he's been going on about is how _irresponsible _I am, and how reckless and cold-hearted I am for putting poor old Doctor Watson on his death bed!" Sherlock snorted angrily. "He came and visited you know, and then proceeded to act like it was _my _fault! Incompetent twit!"

"Well, it is your fault" John commented mildly, taken no notice of the filthy look that was directed his way.

"Mrs Hudson has been twenty times worse" Sherlock ranted, finally getting a chance to complain to someone that actually listened. "She's been nagging and nagging and even threatened to throw me out of the flat if it ever happened again! Huh, the way people seem to think I just drag you along with me! And strictly speaking, _you_ were the one that went cavorting around London"

"I was not cavorting!" John shot back defensively "You know as well as I do that I would have preferred to stay at home the whole time! "

"No such thing as peacefulness at Baker Street" Sherlock said and John whole-heartedly agreed. "The doctors here said you need to send another 3 days here, one day maximum."

"I'll leave tomorrow" John decided, massaging his side slightly "It's probably for the best anyway, I keep losing my balance for some reason."

Sherlock's face fell and although he wiped the look off immediately John spotted it. He gave him a warm smile, grateful that things had actually turned out for the best.

"I have no doubt that you'll soon drag us into yet more chaos when I come back" John teased and Sherlock smirked in response.

"That's what we do" He answered and they laughed, ecstatic that the threat that had been hanging over them had been lifted.

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**Next comes the epilogue and I'll finally be finished writing this story. I looked over it yesterday and I'm so ashamed that I've spent so long writing only seven chapters!**

**Reviewers, you are beautiful, so please keep reading so I can finally be done with this fic.**

**Thank you to anyone who has bothered to read this far!**

**P.S: The epilogue will contain reasons why this story is linked to Reichenbach and will probably be very depressing. Keep reading, I beg you!**


	8. Epilogue

_**Nine Months Later.**_

* * *

A few months ago, John Watson would have never thought he would find himself in the position he was now in; packing a bag at Baker Street whilst staring around the strangely empty flat. The main room felt cold and neglected, almost exactly like a tomb. John had no doubt that since Sherlock Holmes had departed from his life the essence of the flat had almost disappeared. He couldn't believe he had put up with it so long, the haunting image of past memories embedded in the atmosphere of the dwelling. He hated it.

His scrapbook of cases was prized among his possessions now, since it contained all he could remember of the consulting detective. He personally didn't like to look through it, but others adored it, especially his fiancée Mary.

'_To think of all the stuff you used to do together!'_ She had marvelled, turning the pages with care _'It really is something to be proud of John'_

And John was proud. Prouder of his best friend more than people realised, but it did nothing to numb the empty pain. It had become less intense over the past months, but John still remembered everything vividly.

But clearest in his memory where the tiny details that led up to Sherlock's eventual fall. Chief of these details was a memory of a conversation that the pair had in a hospital. John winced as he remembered Sherlock's smug face and the genuine relief he had felt when he was informed Moriarty was with MI5 and under Mycroft's care. How could he have been so naive?! The government official had destroyed everything by leaking details of Sherlock's life to Moriarty.

Details that led to the fall.

Granted, Moriarty had also committed suicide but that bought no happiness to John. Hardly anything bought joy to him now;all he really wanted was his best friend back.

"I'm going now Sherlock" John called out to the empty flat. Nobody answered and John didn't expect anyone to, but it felt wrong to walk out of his home without a departing word. "I'll be around these parts obviously, but not at Baker street..."

Silence. The absence of sound was so deafening it felt like a muffling blanket being wrapped around John's ears. He swallowed nervously before continuing, mainly just to distract himself from the hollowness of the room.

"It was great while it lasted" John muttered, running one last fond gaze around. He sighed heavily before marching out, refusing to look back into the accusing eyes he imagined the flat pointing at him.

/******/*/*/*/******************/***************** **********/

Mrs Hudson got all teary as John stood by the entrance, trying to gather his strength to leave.

" I don't know how I'll manage without my boys!" She sniffed, fussing over him like a worried aunt " First Sherlock,and now you! What on earth am I supposed to do with myself now!"

"Don't" John murmured, guilt blanketing him as he thought of poor Mrs Hudson tottering about, lonely and old. " I'll be visiting on Sundays Mrs Hudson, and I'll pop round as often as I can, you know I will..."

"I know dear, I know." Mrs Hudson muttered sadly " You look after yourself John, and remember, I'm always open for a cuppa and a nice long chat. And there's a lovely little cafe nearby, we can go on Thursday-"

"There's a wedding coming up to, and you are most definitely invited" John reminded her and she smiled excitedly in return.

"Oh yes, I quite forgot!" She laughed, but her merriment faded and a wistful look came onto her face " I wonder what Sherlock would have been like at a wedding..."

" Probably unbearable" John replied, smiling but feeling as though he was crumbling inside, " Well, until Sunday Mrs Hudson"

" Goodbye John and you look after yourself!" Mrs Hudson called after him as he turned from the flat and began to walk away. She watched after him for a couple of moments, even after he had turned a corner as was no longer in sight.

And on top of a Polish supermarket opposite 221B, a certain dead detective also watched, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he considered the event he had just witnessed.

* * *

**Finally,I've finished this story!**

**Thank you so much to anyone who has read this far, and especially to those beautiful souls who reviewed.**

**Yellowrose437, Brightpath2, Sherlocked in my heart and Helenamaimi are the few who posted _RECURRING _reviews, and for that I am extremely,extremely grateful!  
**

**Thanks again for reading!**


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